


Sleeping Beauties

by HogwartsConsultingDetective



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsConsultingDetective/pseuds/HogwartsConsultingDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SMOKING CW</p></blockquote>





	1. Bowl of Corn Flakes

                Dean sat at the green vinyl table, a bowl of untouched corn flakes turning to milky mush in front of him as he stared intently at the clock hanging on the yellow wall.  Since he was too nervous to eat and the house was as clean as he could ever get it, Dean was pretending that he had the power to turn back time at will.

                However, at the moment he was faced with a terrible predicament: he couldn’t decide when to turn time back to, theoretically.

                Should he turn it back to five minutes earlier? Then he could stop himself from pouring the bowl of cereal he was now obligated to eat, even though the longer he procrastinated the mushier it became.

                Or maybe he could turn it back to three days ago, when the social worker called and promised another visit. He could tell them that he was going away for the weekend, even though there was nothing to hide but his fear now. Maybe if he had the bowl of cereal wouldn’t be untouched in front of him. In fact, he would probably still be asleep if he had thought to lie.

                Or perhaps he should turn back to last week.  If he did, then he could stop himself from making that defensive but nonetheless biting comment to the snobby lady at the front desk who was trying to convince him that three years at Harvard Law made her more aware of the inner workings of a 2012 Lexus Sedan than a mechanic.  If he had just known that she was a friend of the boss’s wife, he would have chosen a different way to tell the lady to shut her overly wide mouth and just let him do his goddamn job. If he had done that, he wouldn’t be fired, which means there would be no social worker call 3 days ago, so he wouldn’t have poured the still decomposing bowl of corn flakes.

                Or maybe he could turn it back to 2 years ago when he first took custody of Sam. Maybe he could tell himself to dress a little more nicely, speak a little more politely, and not get stoned off of his ass the night before. Perhaps if he were looking even the slightest bit neater for the court, they would have given him custody without the promise of social workers “checking up from time to time”, which was court jargon for “looking for a reason to remove him from your custody and slam him into a foster home so fast you won’t be able to count the milliseconds”.

If he had done that, then there would be no need to drop out of college, so he would have an actual job, meaning he would never have gotten fired, so there would never be a phone call from the social worker, so he would still be passed out in bed and not sitting watching corn flakes slowly break into millions of grainy pieces in the warm milk.

Or maybe he could turn it back to six years ago.  If he did, then maybe he could ask his parents not to go out for a drink that night.  He could make up some excuse, like he had a headache, and tell Billy Foster to go screw himself.  Then some other poor woman could be shot by a homeless man, and some other husband could chase after him, seeking revenge, only to be hit by a bus.  Someone else’s kids could bounce from foster home to foster home for years and learn at too early an age when to duck and when to lock the closet door. 

Some other 20 year old could quit college and get fired and get a call and pour a fucking bowl of what had once been cornflakes.

“Dean?”  Sam’s voice was small, but it snatched Dean from his reddening day dream with a shock.  Dean looked up, blinking furiously, and tasted blood. Shit. He bit his tongue.  “Dean? Are you okay?”  Sam shuffled into the tiny yellow kitchen, his pajamas hanging high off his tall frame, and Dean again reminded himself to buy Sam new pajamas, then again re-reminded himself that he had no job and therefore no money to buy anything.

“Morning, sleeping beauty” Dean said, pulling a falsely happy voice on like a cloak. Sleeping Beauty was a princess that his mother used to tell him stories about. He couldn’t remember much, just that there was some pissed old hag who wanted to go to a party, but wasn’t invited, so she cursed the princess, something to do with a needle. Anyways, when the princess was older, she fell asleep and so did everyone else.  For years they slept, until a prince suddenly decided to explore a patch of forest (which incidentally hid the sleeping kingdom) that was obviously bad juju, but he did it anyway. Why? Cause he was a prince and fuck you, that’s why. 

Then he somehow found the sleeping princess in bed and she was so pretty he decided to kiss her. (“pervert” snickered Dean into his pillow, dodging his mother’s pinch.  “Shut up Dean, this is my favorite part” came Sam’s irritated voice to his left.) The kiss was so good that it woke up the whole kingdom, so they got married. 

“Why?” Dean kept asking, long after Sam had given up repeating “True Love, Dean”.  He said “true love” like there were capital letters at the beginnings of the words, as if true love was a conscious entity that drifted through the air around people’s heads.  After a while, Mary gave up repeating it too, and so John had to go in and tell Dean in that low voice that all fathers seem to have to mind his mother. 

Dean is still asking why, though he doesn’t know it.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice startled Dean from the memory, causing him to jump and upset the table, which (regretfully) made him spill the entire bowl of crumbled and liquefied corn flakes, making them unsuitable to eat (shame).

“Jesus, Sammy!”  Dean rushed to the hallway and grabbed a dirty towel, tossing it to Sam and then running to the sink.

“You were daydreaming again, Dean” said Sam calmly as he dried the floor and table of the sugary milk.  Dean grunted but didn’t say anything as he scrubbed viciously at every place the milk spilled, determined that there would be no sticky spot anywhere when the social worker came.

Once everything was cleaned up, Sam poured himself a bowl of cereal (wholegrain, the geek) and filled the seat Dean just vacated.  He munched at the food slowly, but steadily.  Dean stared at his brother in wonder.  How could he be so calm on these days?  Sam had grown accustomed to the steady social worker visits, and answered every question as though bored.  Dean, meanwhile, sawed his fingernails off with his teeth any time someone well-dressed even walked past the house. 

Of course, it was easier or harder depending on who was “checking in on them”.  Some social workers visited several times, and were warm and friendly.  They patted Sam’s cheeks and laughed at Dean’s jokes. When they revisited, Dean was more at ease.  But the state didn’t like to keep sending the same social worker.  Sometimes they sent cold ones, with sharp eyes and crisp suits who sat at the edge of the chair, refused any food, and touched everything as if afraid it would infect them with a rare and deadly disease.  These social workers often left with their lips set in a tight line, like a slash across their face, and Dean rarely saw that particular one again. 

Every time the phone rang after one of these visits, Dean’s stomach plummeted. He always expected it to be the state, telling him that he was unfit for guardianship of Sam and that someone would be by to pick him up in the morning. Every time, though, it wasn’t them. Usually it was a sales woman or Dean’s boss asking him to come in early or stay in late.

The phone call that he got three days ago was the first one he got since he was fired.  As soon as he heard the voice on the other end, he knew he was screwed.  They had never called to warn of a social worker visiting before.  _Element of surprise_ was their motto. 

Dean had a bad feeling about this social worker. The lady on the phone said he was new, that he had never met Dean before.  She also _didn’t_ say that he was there to take Sam away from Dean, which was unsettling.  Why would they call ahead otherwise? It wouldn’t be out of kindness.

  Dean knew that he was skating on thin ice.  He always had been.  A 20 year old high school dropout with a history of minor misdemeanors trying to take care of a 14 year old kid on a mechanics salary?  Actually, cutout the mechanics salary now. A jobless 20 year old high school dropout with a history of misdemeanors trying to take care of a 14 year old kid. That’s what Dean was, and if he was a social worker, he wouldn’t trust Dean either.

_Beep Beep Beep Beep.   Beep Beep Beep Beep._ Dean’s watch suddenly jerked him out of his thoughts and into action. It was the nine o’clock alarm.  He told Sam to stay and rushed to the kitchen window, his eyes scanning the sidewalk.  No social worker yet. He had a few minutes.  He rushed down the hall and to the bathroom.  He wet a comb down and yanked it quickly through his bristled hair, then scrubbed his teeth a few times with a toothbrush.  He straightened his shirt and jeans carefully, and arranged his face into a welcoming smile.

_Brrrrrrrz!_ The doorbell’s buzz arced through Dean’s ears like canons.  He rushed back down the hall, through the kitchen, and to the front door, checking the rooms he passed through quickly for any sign of unkemptness. Sam watched him rush past with bored humor in his eyes, then continued chewing on his breakfast.

Once at the front door, Dean took a deep breath.  He turned to doorknob and swung the door open, then froze. 

“Hello,” said the social worker brightly, turning to face Dean as a bumble bee buzzed past the back of his head.  “My name is Castiel Novak and I’ll be interviewing Sam today.”


	2. The Land of Home

Castiel sat on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped in front of him and his elbows resting on his knees. He often found himself in this position even when he wasn’t consciously aware of entering it, which often gave him one of two appearances depending on if he was with someone or not: When there was someone he was talking to, his head was up but his neck down, and he looked like a concerned paternal figure. However, when he was alone, his head was bowed and his eyes downcast, and it was a spitting image of a man in prayer. People often shushed when passing him while he was in this state, something that greatly amused Castiel.  
At the moment, his head was up and neck bowed as he was sitting with someone. Two someone’s actually, but one was standing and listening, not responding or contributing to the conversation, so he was really only with a singular “someone”.   
That someone was the reason he was in the neighborhood. The someone was tall and lanky, as if in mid-growth spurt. He had huge brown eyes that whispered out to Castiel through thick upper lashes. He needed braces, but not so badly that he was unattractive or didn’t want to smile with his teeth. He assumed the same position Castiel did as soon as he sat down and kept picking at the skin around his nails.  
The someone was named Sam Winchester. According to Castiel’s charts, he was 14 and an orphan. His parents died on the same night, his mother an unfortunate bystander in a bar fight and his father a grieving drunken man who didn't see a bus in time. This happened when Sam was eight, and he bounced from foster home to foster home until two years ago, when his brother and guardian in question petitioned for custody.  
Since then the two had been visited monthly by state social workers. Previous statements described the family as “resilient” and “healthy”, and Castiel so far agreed. Sam was in perfect physical, mental, and social health. He had a 4.0 GPA, was a member of the debate team and soccer team, and was often seen at various charity events.   
The guardian, Mr. Dean Winchester, didn’t have quite so clean of and adolescence, but seemed to have made a turnaround over the past three years. He was a high school dropout with a history of minor misdemeanors, but received his GED online a year and a half ago and hadn’t had any trouble with the law since he was granted custody of Sam.   
The house was clean and well kept, if lacking glamour. The carpet was threadbare, but was once a brown color. The couch and chairs were mismatched, but there was a small television set in the corner and the coffee table had no lines of white powder, which was more than Castiel say for most of the homes he visited.  
The only thing Castiel could define as an issue was Mr. Winchester’s recent loss of a job. He had been working at an auto-repair shop until last week, when he was fired for what was described as “disorderly conduct towards a highly valued customer”. However, Mr. Winchester had plenty of time to find a new job.   
Other than that, the two seemed perfectly happy.   
Which concerned Castiel.   
He had never been sent to the perfectly happy homes, with yellow wallpaper and smile wrinkles. He wasn’t good at homes like these. Well, maybe he was good at them, but he was better at the dirty homes. The ones with crying babies and blaring radios and the obvious smell of alcohol and chemicals in the stagnant air. The homes that he was obviously going to have to tear apart soon. Tearing them apart was his job too.   
Whenever he wasn’t in a home like that, though, he was in the cold ones. Those homes had thick walls, and there wasn’t anything as emotional as crying, even in the babies. Those were the scariest homes to Castiel, because the pain and abuse wasn’t out in the open to air out. It was hiding in the walls, growing dark green mold and poisoning the entire home from the inside out.  
Those homes were a challenge, because it was hard to find the obvious reason to take the child from the home. In order to find the source of the mold, he had to tear down all of the walls, which usually left the child incurable, which in turn broke Castiel’s heart. But that was what he was good at: finding the unseen hurt.  
And perhaps that was why he was sent to the Winchester residence. Maybe there was mold in their house too, and the agency wanted Castiel to find it. Maybe this little family was dirtier than they looked. 

 

“Mr. Novak?” Sam’s voice sloshed Castiel from his meditation. He realized vaguely that his head was down. “Mr. Novak? My brother was wondering if you wanted a cup of coffee.” Castiel glanced towards the kitchen, which was mostly tucked around the corner. He could see the back of Mr. Winchester’s red shirt.  
“I would love some, thank you.”   
Sam grinned (he grinned with his tongue between his teeth) and bounded back to the kitchen, his long limbs taking the short distance in three strides. Castiel heard a murmur from Sam, water hitting a glass pot, and then the gurgling sound of the coffee maker. Soon the rich, earthy smell of coffee was swimming into the living room, wrapping comfortingly around Castiel.  
He closed his eyes and let the feelings envelope him. After a moment of searching, he could hear a deep voice quietly humming a song he had never heard. He could hear Sam’s pencil scratching numbers onto math homework. He could smell lemon scented furniture polish and the faintest smell of cherry pie.  
The smells and sounds introduced themselves to Castiel. He could almost see them say “Hello! My names is Comfort, and I live in the land of Home.”


	3. Phone Call

Castiel felt the brisk October air press against him and push its fingers into his jacket sleeve. He tucked the blue coat tighter around his frame and adjusted his two-fingered grip on the plastic grocery bag.  He pushed the straps onto his wrist and shoved his key into the lock on his door, the plastic biting into his goose-bumped skin.

                He pushed the wooden door open with his knee and tromped up the stairs to his second story apartment.  The floor creaked beneath his shoes, and he could hear a quiet voice reading Russian poetry through the thin wall.

                The door to his apartment was unlocked, since he was the only resident other than the landlady, to whom the voice reading the poetry belonged. His apartment, of course, was more of a bedroom and bathroom, with a refrigerator and oven shoved into the corner.  The lighting was bad and the heating was worse, but the rent was cheap and the sheets were clean so it was home enough for Castiel.

                Besides, he reminded himself whenever he felt like complaining, it’s nothing compared to the hell that many young children are forced to live in. 

                Cas pulled his scarf and coat off and hung them neatly over the makeshift coat rack, then turned up the heating as high as he dared without setting the entire rickety building aflame.  He checked the electric clock on the stove. “4:02” it told Castiel.

                At 4:30, Naomi would be calling to see how the Winchester visit went.  Castiel didn’t know why she felt the need to call for this visit, but he knew better than to question Naomi.  In fact, once he got over the initial confusion, Castiel was a bit anticipating of the phone call. Perhaps it would clear up some of the confusion heralded in on the file marked as “The Winchesters”.

                He asked so many psychological questions of Sam, checked every nook and cranny, and evaluated Mr. Winchester as if he had been assigned the task by The Queen of England, yet he could find nothing other than financial issues lurking about their house.

                Castiel decided he had time enough to start a report on a fifteen year old girl whom he had been working with who recently asked permission to leave the country under the care of an adult other than her legal guardian. 

                He shoved a piece of cardboard under one of the legs of the chair and started on his work. Just as his hand was beginning to cramp, the phone started to sing the shrill, staccato note it was so terrible at.

                Castiel reached the six inches between the table and the counter and unhooked to phone from the wall. He knew he could and should get a cell-phone, but he was still stuck in the antique phone age, where you could only pace so far while in the midst of a conversation and your hands always had some kink in the wire to work out when the conversation became dull.

                “Castiel Novak,” he said, the phone pushing a breezing noise into his ear when it registered the air that was cloaked in Castiel’s words.

                “Castiel, this is Naomi.”

                “Hello, Naomi.”

                “Hello. I was just calling to see how the Winchester visit went.” She stated the reason she called as if Castiel didn’t already know. Castiel stated the response to Naomi’s introduction as if he hadn’t expected her to call.

                “The visit went well, thank you.  I found both the guardian and child to be in good health and, other than a current financial hiccup, they seem to be well adapted and caring citizens.” 

                Naomi sighed on the other end, as if angry with his good news.

                “In fact,” continued Castiel, biting his tongue in anxiety, “I was almost wondering why I was sent there at all. Wouldn’t this home be more suitable for Paula or Don?  Why did you send a case-worker like me?”

                “Like you?” Naomi asked, as if she didn’t realize what kind of work Castiel dealt in, even though she obviously did. Castiel pretended to explain anyway.

                “Well I find that I’m usually sent to the less stable homes, where abuse and neglect are common and often known but unproven.  However, this family seems to be perfectly happy, and definitely not the kind I’m used to.”

                There was silence on the other end for a moment, before Naomi continued tersely, as if wringing out every word before slapping it to Castiel. “The state is very suspecting of Mr. Winchester due to certain… rumors… that encircle him. They would like to ascertain that these rumors are false, and asked for someone who was good at finding out about people. You were the first name our representatives came up with.”

                There was silence for a moment.

                “May I ask the nature of these rumors?” asked Castiel finally. 

                “Not at this time, Mr. Novak.” Naomi’s voice sliced through the receiver, “I’ll expect a full report Monday morning.  Good night.”

                Castiel didn’t even have time to finish his own corresponding farewell before the monotone of the phone hit his ears, as if laughing and questioning why he was talking to a woman who had already hung up.

               


	4. Bobby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMOKING CW

“Hey, don’t forget your lunch bag!” Dean called after Sam, shoving the brown paper into his brother’s hands before the younger boy turned and sprinted through the living room. Out of the window, Dean could just see the bus driver impatiently tapping his finger on the steering wheel.   
“Bye, Dean!” Sam shouted over his shoulder half-way down the street. Dean raised a hand in farewell just in time for Sam to see as he boarded the yellow bus. After the bus tottered down the street and around the corner, Dean shut the door against the invading chill air and poured himself a third cup of coffee.   
Reaching around behind the refrigerator surreptitiously, Dean felt along the makeshift shelf nailed to the wall. His fingertips felt the grainy dust beneath them until they came in contact with a smooth box. With a guilty bite of his lip, Dean pulled the box from behind the refrigerator and opened it. Pulling a long, thin cigarette from within it, Dean grabbed his coffee and a match and stepped out the back door.   
There was a set of steps leading down to a stretch of brown grass, then to a tall wooden fence that Dean built immediately after moving into the neighborhood. Dean had built the steps too, complete with railings. He set the steaming mug of coffee on one of these railings and piped the cigarette between his chilled lips. Using his right hand to block the wind and the left to light the cigarette, Dean took a short drag to help the paper catch flame. He blew out the first puff without inhaling before taking another longer pull. He caught it in his mouth first, then parted his lips and breathed in, letting both the smoke and cold, fresh air push deep into his poisoned lungs.  
He knew that smoking was an expensive and slow way to die, but every now and then he had to indulge on just one. It kept him from jumping back into deeper and more illegal, not to mention expensive, habits. If he was caught smoking cigarettes, the only person who would truly be angry at him would be Sam, to whom Dean had promised he would quit.   
Sam was always worried about Dean’s health.  
He smoked half of the cigarette, the warm fumes tightening his cold lips into a hard line, and drank his quickly cooling coffee before stubbing out the remainder of the cigarette and ducking back inside the warm kitchen.  
The air stung at his face as it killed the chill-bumps residing there. Dean tucked the remainder of the cigarette back into the box and returned it to its hiding place, polished off the last of the coffee, and went upstairs for a shower.  
His muscles relaxed and his skin warmed from the hot water, Dean pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. He shoved a razor-knife into his back pocket, pulled a hoodie over his still wet head, and sauntered out the door at 9:30.   
It was another thirty minutes before he got to the park where Bobby asked him to meet. His breath was coming out in short, shivering puffs in the cold air, and the park was nearly abandoned except a few speed-walkers, Dean, and Bobby.   
The older man was in his usual grease-stained attire, sitting on one of the graffiti-coated benches with a breakfast burrito wedged between his hands. Upon seeing Dean, he raised his hand and beckoned. Dean tucked his arms closer to his body and stomped to his old friend.  
“Why the hell did you want to meet outside?” Dean shook out, his teeth snapping between words. Bobby just looked up at him passively, a bit of egg stuck in his beard, until Dean sighed and sat down. It was silent but for Bobby’s grunts as he devoured the remainder of his burrito for the next few minutes.   
“Heard you lost your job” Bobby said after a few shuddering moments. Dean stayed silent and scuffed at the frosted gravel with the toe of his shoe. Bobby sighed at the younger man’s response, running a greasy hand over his worn face. “Dammit, boy. Admit to it so I can get to the good news.”   
Dean started at Bobby’s statement, as if the term “good news” was as foreign as “alien”. Could there really be some glimmer of luck left in Dean’s life? He looked to the older man, only to find him staring back expectantly. Dean nodded.   
“Okay. Jeez, you weirdo, just own up to it.” Dean set his jaw in a good-natured scowl and continued looking at Bobby, waiting for the so called “good news”. Bobby took his time on telling Dean, wiping his mouth and hands with a napkin and picking some grease from under his thumbnail.  
Dean groaned in impatience.   
“Okay, testy. I got that loan from the bank.” Dean stared back passively.   
“Which means?” he asked after a moment. Bobby’s proud face twisted into an exasperated scowl at Dean’s lack of enthusiasm and knowledge.  
“It means,” Bobby said, “that I can quit my job and open up a garage.” Dean felt his heart wither in disappointment but swell in pride. The effect was a strange feeling in his chest and an odd look on his face. He struggled with it for a moment before forcing out a congratulations.  
“That’s great, Bobby” he said almost half-heartedly, a reminder of his own unemployment stinging his brain.   
“Damn right it’s great, kid. So why don’t you try to be a little more grateful?” Bobby snapped back with only a touch of humor. Dean looked at him quizzically. Bobby stared back for a moment before a sad recognition enveloped his face. “I’m going to hire you to work for me…idgit.” Bobby added in the last word after a brief hesitation, like he was trying to help Dean understand that not all good news for others was bad news for him, but also trying to keep the tone light.  
Bobby knew that Dean had grown up in a world that had squeezed him into a being of tough muscle and twisted reminders. He knew that Dean was not used to others trying to anything but incriminate him, and definitely not used to affection or help. However, sometimes he forgot, assuming that Dean would come to the conclusion that someone was trying to help him without having to be directly told by that someone.   
Dean squinted at Bobby for a moment as the words clicked. His eyes ranged for a minute, from confused to hopeful to grateful to suspicious to warily happy. The result was another twisted look and the young man’s face.   
“Yes, I’m being serious this time,” Bobby said half-exasperatedly, rolling his eyes for good measure.   
Dean let a grin split his face as the revelation slowly came into focus. It seemed that words were beginning to fail him, so he just looked down at his shoe again. Bobby’s heart broke.   
“Thank you” Dean forced out thickly. Bobby nodded at the ground, hoping that Dean would see out of the corner of his eye.  
There was a moment of full silence as a warmth enveloped the two. It only lasted a moment before the two stoic men rebuilt the wall and the situation became awkward.  
Bobby cleared his throat and stood. Dean mirrored him.  
The two shook hands. “Thank me by doing a good job,” Bobby said, still not looking Dean in the eye, “8 AM next Monday. For the love of God, don’t be late.”   
Dean nodded, still grinning. Bobby nodded again, tucked his hands into his pocket, and stomped back to his truck.   
Dean watched the older man rumble down the road before turning back the way he came and beginning the cold march home, his face still frozen in that smile.


	5. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot that I had started this work! Sorry, dears (if anybody actually read this). Anyways, as always, descriptions of child abuse/removal from the home and cursing.

Castiel stared at the speckled popcorn-ceiling. From the first moment he had stepped into the apartment, he had hated that ceiling. The Styrofoam specks would rain down onto his head every time a building-shaking subway roared through, dusting Castiel’s black hair and appearing as dandruff that would only come out after several showers.   
He had sworn when he moved in that the ceiling would be the first thing he would change.  
However, bad hours and worse pay had snuffed that plan right out of existence.  
So he was doomed to a life of staring at a ceiling he hated with thoughts he hated more. Sounds of children crying and clawing at his arms, mothers screaming and begging, car tires scattering gravel all over the yard. A man’s voice screaming loud enough to set the air into vibration and make his bedroom door rattle on the hinges.  
Common thoughts that plagued him every night.  
But there was one more thing. A sight, really. Green.  
So. Much. Green.  
And it was such a beautiful green. It was the green of a field where ancient battles were once fought.   
Where there is so much pain and anger, and where the green grass is so bright because of the nature of its fertilizer. Where there is still hints of the blood softened dust, but the soft grasses and weeds have mostly grown over it.  
A place where death once reigned and life has now rebooted.  
And there is also a tongue between teeth. And coffee. And a brown carpet.  
And that goddamn green.  
Castiel sat up and scrubbed at his face impatiently.  
Why in God’s name am I thinking of them?   
Your curious, dumbass.  
But that isn’t enough to keep me up thinking about them.  
Maybe…  
Shut up.   
Castiel stood and pressed his bare feet to the icy floor. Shock traveled up his legs and to his brain. Gingerly, he stood and walked in the general direction of the sink.  
THUNK!  
“Shit.”  
Castiel cradled his toe for a moment, then again moved toward the sink, this time feeling with the heel of his foot before following with the rest of his body.  
Eventually, he made it to the sink and filled a plastic cup with the water. Luckily, it was winter. The water shot at his brain as it made its way down his throat, refreshing his senses and, for a moment, replacing all the green with a kick of icy blue.  
Get out of my head.   
Castiel down three glasses before turning and going back to the bed, again carefully. When he reached it, he flopped unceremoniously. Bad idea.  
The thin mattress, which was actually several pillows shoved into a blanket-like-bag, offered little protection against the hard wooden pallets upon which it rested. Castiel’s head bonked first, then the trunk of his body bounded against it, banging against the floor and undoubtedly cracking at least two of the pallets.   
Castiel rubbed at his head, already feeling a bump swell.   
However, the bump was enough to make him fall asleep.  
In his dream, the only colors he saw were red and green.  
Mother-fucking Christmas.


	6. A second phone call

He was awoken by the icy chiming of the landline. It arced through his ears and stabbed painfully into his brain. Cas sat up stiffly and through the thin comforter off his body before checking his watch. His eyes were sandy with sleep and the metal of the watch was chill against his dry fingers, but after a moment of squinting he discerned that it was around six o’clock.   
Frowning, Cas leaned forward and unhooked the phone from the wall. He held it an inch or so away from his ear because the idea of the cold plastic pressing to the skin that was only moments earlier cocooned in the warmth of his head and pillow.   
“Hello?” Castiel began uncertainly, forgetting the formal introduction required by his work. Since this was the only phone he had all work and personal matters came through it. Not that he had many personal matters. Usually it was the office asking him to go somewhere or it was one of his kids telling him some good or bad news.   
However, the voice that shuffled through the other end of the line was neither the thin voice of a child nor the formally thick voice of one of the people at the office. This voice was gruff and low.  
It made Cas think of sticky summer nights sitting on a grainy wooden bench and watching fireworks paint the inky sky. It spoke of cigarettes on car drives home as the sun splashed across the road and cast long shadows that would pool in the tiny pores of the road. It spoke of whispers under sticky sheets and of dusty attic explorations.   
He had heard the voice before somewhere.   
“Castiel Novak?” the voice said, uncertainly.   
Cas cleared his throat. “Yes? Who is this?”  
“Uh. This is Dean Winchester, you may remember me? You came to my house a few days ago to talk to my brother?”   
Castiel’s hand went to the frayed edge of the pillow case and began twirling the worn blue fringe. “Yes. I remember you, Mr. Winchester.” I couldn’t forget you last night, asshole. “Can I ask how you got this number, Mr. Winchester?”   
“Oh, uh- I um- I called your office and they gave it to me. Is that okay, Mr. Novak?”   
“Oh, yes. It’s fine. I was just curious.” There was a long, awkward pause during which Cas became very aware of the other man’s breathing. Ragged and dipping, just like his voice.   
“…”  
“…”  
“…Can I help you , Mr. Winchester?”  
“Oh! Yes! I just called to let you know that I got a job.” Dean’s voice dropped in both pitch and volume as he spoke, but Cas felt relief blow through him.   
“Congratulations! That is certainly a relief. What are you going to do?”  
“I’m going back to mechanics, but with an old friend. He just bought a garage and offered to hire me.”   
“That is very good news, Mr. Winchester-“  
“Oh, man. Call me Dean. It’s sort of freaky for someone to call me ‘Mr.’ anything.” Dean sounded giddy despite himself. He was obviously as worried about the financial situation as the office had been. A sign of good parenting, Cas would have to remember and put it in the report.   
“Okay. Congratulations, Dean.” He liked the way the name sat on his tongue. It slid out very easily, felt thin and strong. Cas always liked names with long vowels in the middle. “It’s my job to pry, so how much will you be making and so on? I’d like to put it in my report.”  
“Oh, I’m not exactly sure. I’ll figure it out in about two hours. If you want to, you can come over around six o’clock-ish tonight and I’ll give you whatever information I can get.”  
Cas’s heart skipped at the idea of seeing Dean again. God, you fucking idiot. You can just have him call you. It’ll be easier than a trip across town. Have him call you back at six. “Okay. I’ll see you at six.” Idiot.

Cas hung up the phone and felt the ghost of a grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. What is wrong with you?   
Obviously he found Dean physically attractive. Who wouldn’t, with the sandy hair and chiseled jaw and graceful, streamlined build and hands that were somehow both delicate and hard simultaneously? It really wasn’t that strange that he found himself thinking about the freckles spattered across the man’s face, or the way his eyelashes curled as he blinked, or the intense green of his eyes.   
So he was hot, and Cas was excited to be finally meeting someone at (or through) work who was not only attractive but also nurturing and kind.   
It was rare, especially for Cas, to meet anyone he would like to actually spend time with. He was always happiest with kids, but many of the ones he worked with hated him. He couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t his job to be their parent, it was his job to find them suitable ones. And most of the adults involved in his line of work were unsavory characters, even at the office.   
So yes, Cas found himself a bit excited to be going over to see Dean again.   
It really wasn’t that odd. He just had to remind himself that he wasn’t allowed to act on these feelings. Keep up a professional front, do not get overly sentimental towards any of the children or guardians in question. And after all, his first and foremost job was to make sure the home was safe for the brother, Sam.   
There were still these alleged rumors Naomi spoke of…


End file.
